


not to me (not if it's you)

by kouje



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Achilles!Sokka, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - The Song of Achilles Fusion, Angst, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, Patroclus!Zuko, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, War, Young Love, the major character death doesnt happen for..........a while if thats any consolation, will add more specific tags as the plot progresses but this will eventually include:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:41:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29036403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kouje/pseuds/kouje
Summary: "Name one hero who was happy," Sokka demanded, and continued when Zuko was unable to answer. "You can't.""I can't," Zuko agreed."They never let you be a hero and happy." Sokka grinned and it shone like the sun. "I'll tell you a secret. I'm going to be the first."-Or: Sokka as Achilles and Zuko as Patroclus, living and dying for each other.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	not to me (not if it's you)

**Author's Note:**

> 🌿 hi hello welcome to my new hell  
> 🌿 i don't have an update schedule for this boy and will update as i go along so be sure to sub if u wanna keep up as it goes along  
> 🌿 im also writing a yoongi/hoseok soa au that is basically this but name and situation replaced so be prepared for me to plagiarize myself if ur interested  
> 🌿 oh important note: i'll be adding tags as i go along, too. if youve read soa u know theres... a lot that happens and i made a very active decision to cut / modify more triggering plot points, but there will be more non-graphic violence as the story progresses bc it is essentially a war fic  
> 🌿 aight thats it, love u, hope u enjoy, xoxo

not to me (not if it’s you)

🏹

_“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked… I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar_

🏹

chapter one

🏹

Zuko’s father was the king and the son of kings, born into a long line of rulers of Caldera, a fruitful country that one could lord over with a confident eye — an eye that, if one wished for death, may be called cocky. Zuko’s father was a prideful man, boastful of successes both born and earned, viciously protective of what was his and more viciously ravenous to possess more. When Zuko was born, Ozai was proud. He was a healthy child who came wailing into the world, eager to live and to take his rightful place as heir of Caldera and of Ozai’s pride. 

Perhaps it was because the pride was so readily given that caused it to sour so potently. Being a healthy child was the only thing that Zuko could boast, proven again and again, year by year, as he grew and failed to impress. He was not the most clever child, nor brave, nor social, nor gifted. Ozai saw children of lesser lords push Zuko in the courtyard, tease him for his naivety, sneer in his direction, and, rather than seeking vindication on Zuko’s behalf, sought vindication against Zuko himself. He went from the hands of cruel peers to the hands of his crueler father, shame ingrained into his bones in the shape of hands and purple bruises.

The reminders of his worthlessness (or, at least, his not-enoughness) were constant and pressing, but it wasn’t until Zuko was five that his unimpressiveness truly struck him.

Caldera was in line to host the games, and Ozai had ensured that they were the most lavish in anyone’s memory. Hundreds upon thousands of upper class nobility and worthy competitors flocked to the city, their eyes on the laurel wreath held in Zuko’s hands. It was all he was good for, and Ozai had been reluctant to give him even that responsibility. He wasn’t like the other noble children, able to sprint or swim or throw far enough to honor his father, but he was proof of Ozai’s virility, and it would be more shameful to hide him away. 

He stood by his father’s side on a raised dais, surrounded by strong bodies and eager grins. There was one that Zuko could not take his eyes away from a boy of Zuko’s age, stretching and laughing, readying himself for his race. He was one of the younger competitors and stood out because of this; he was still plump with childhood, his skin golden, with darker freckles scattered over his shoulders like stars. His tousled brown hair shone honey-gold, as if the sun itself had already crowned him. He didn’t need the laurel wreath for glory.

He received it anyway. Zuko stared numbly as Ozai took the wreath from his hands and crowned him. The boy’s father, Hakoda, came to claim him, pride evident on his beaming face. Hakoda’s kingdom was smaller than Caldera, and more humble, but his wife was rumored to be a goddess, his fields wielded healthy harvests, and his people loved him. Zuko’s own father watched him with clear envy.

“That is what a son should be,” Ozai stated, cruel and dismissive.

Zuko watched King Hakoda embrace his son, listening to his laughter and ruffling his gold-glinting hair. _That is what a son should be_. Zuko hated him.

Zuko remembered very little from his life then. His childhood was filled with fearful repression, skittish walks through the halls, avoiding his peers. He remembered his father frowning on the throne; he remembered a toy dragon he loved; he remembered his baby sister scowling, he remembered his mother, Ursa.

In this last memory, Zuko is skipping stones, because his mother smiled at the ripples they made across the water. She kissed his cheek; he didn’t remember her saying anything. It was such a perfect, quiet memory that Zuko was almost sure he made it up. That was the last memory he had of Ursa. Zuko knew that he had seen her covered with a white shroud on a pyre, but he did not remember it. Perhaps he was better off.

Another memory, vague enough that it could have been a dream, were it not for the humiliation burning in his chest at the thought of it. He had been a brittle thing of nine when he had been summoned by Ozai and told that he would be putting himself forth as a suitor to Helen of Troy. He was told to not disgrace his father, as he so often was. He remembered Helen’s father joking that Zuko was barely a boy, much less a man, and Ozai had said he was man enough for the both of them. The attendance laughed, but Zuko knew that it wasn’t at Ozai’s joke, but at the inappropriate boastfulness. They laughed at him. They laughed at Zuko. It caused his throat to close and his eyes to burn, and he remained in a daze even as all of Helen’s suitors, himself included, took a blood oath to protect her and her chosen husband. He had a scar on his palm years later, so it might have been real. It must have been.

🏹

Ursa’s death and Ozai’s subsequent disinterest in taking a second wife meant that there were no second sons to make up for Zuko’s inadequacy. Ozai, if he didn’t want to risk ending the royal bloodline, was forced to acknowledge that Zuko must be trained as a real man and a real prince. He was still a willowy thing, his emotions too obvious on his innocent face, only ten years old, only a child. But child or not, he should have known to not speak out.

His father’s general spoke of a plan to sacrifice an entire platoon of young soldiers, barely older than Zuko himself. He wanted to break through a wall, and they would be an adequate distraction. One hundred lives for one hundred bricks. He should have _known_ to not speak out.

The outrage was immediate, and the general demanded death or exile. He was a powerful man, and it was only the audience that kept Ozai from killing Zuko outright. It would have been considered indecent and improper of a king; it could cause a feud amongst the nobles and Ozai would be loath to struggle for his throne. It wasn’t worth losing it over a son like Zuko. So he was spared, left with a scar, and made an orphan. He was left with no parents, no family name, no inheritance; in their day, death was preferable. But Ozai was a practical man. For the cost of his son’s weight in gold, he could be rid of the burden, and his weight in gold was much less than the expense of the lavish funeral Ozai would be expected to provide.

This is how Zuko came to be ten and an orphan. This is how Zuko came to Glaciera.

King Hakoda was known for taking in exiles and orphans, and Zuko was both. He was given, and he was taken, and all it cost was his pitiful weight in gold; he rode from Caldera with a scepter, necklaces, ornamental statues, and a lyre. His mother had played that lyre once. It was a final slap in the face by his father; the lyre was wooden with gold strings, and it was practically worthless weight. Zuko wasn’t even worth a spare chalice in the end.

🏹

Kya had been gazing at the clouds when Hakoda found her. She was a sea nymph, beautiful and ethereal, a minor goddess blessed with sight and kindness. She had stared at Hakoda and Hakoda had stared back, enthralled by one another. He said hello, he asked her questions, he offered his name, and she did not reply. But she did appear on the same sunny rock the next day, listening to his charming mortal voice. She appeared the next day, as well, and told him her name. She appeared the next day, and was pleased by the juicy pomegranate he opened for her. She appeared the next day, and kissed him, and by the next, he had offered his hand in marriage, and by the next, she had been blessed by the ability to live on land. It came with limitations, as all blessings did, and she could only be his for five years. But their love was enough for one million years over, and five would suffice.

The gods who blessed her favored Glaciera and favored Greece, and told her that she would bear a child stronger than any Grecian who had come before him. Though he would not be a child of water like her, immortal and god-birthed, he would be a _hero_. She bore her husband a strong son followed by a strong daughter and, for those five years on land, Hakoda was plastered to her side, watching their children grow, and his wife smile, and his family flourish. When her five years were up, she walked slowly, reluctantly, sadly back to the ocean, leaving them behind. 

She would return as often as she could to visit them, meeting them at the shore and taking them into her cool, salt-scented embrace, offering what motherhood she could. Hakoda never took another wife in her absence; the thought never crossed his mind. Even in his mortal mediocrity, compared to her godly existence, he had been blessed with beautiful, clever, strong children. He was blessed with children who others followed, children who would lead their people well, children who brought honor to their father’s name.

🏹

Zuko followed a servant through the halls of the Glacieran palace, feeling numb and utterly alone. He had felt a strange panic when his golden offerings had been taken to the treasury; they had been his only companions and, save the few belongings he had been allowed to bring, were the only things remaining of _home_. But Caldera was not home any longer. Home was this strange place, small and southern, so unlike all that he had known.

He supposed he was being led to the throne room, where he would drop to his knees and pour out his gratitude, but the servant passed the arch and stopped at a door farther down the hall. King Hakoda was absent, and Zuko would present himself before his son. Zuko was caught off guard; the King was much less intimidating than his son, somehow. Zuko remembered the dark laurel wreath against his gold-glinting hair, all those years ago, the way he had bested the other boys, the way he had been embraced by his father, the way he had been crowned by the sun itself. _That is what a son should be_.

He was lying on his back on a pillowed bench when Zuko entered, idly plucking at a lyre. He either didn’t hear him enter or chose to not acknowledge him. That was how Zuko understood his place in this new life; he had been a prince, once, and now he was nothing. An orphan, an exile; negligible, ignored.

This disinterest struck a nerve in Zuko and he stepped forward, deliberately shuffling his feet against the marble floor, and his head lolled lazily to the side to regard him. In the five years since Zuko had seen him, he had outgrown his baby-face plumpness, emerging into a lithe youth that was so clearly stronger and more lovely than Zuko’s own willowy frame. He retained the gold-glinting hair, the golden skin, the golden arch of his lips. His eyes, Zuko saw, were as deep blue as the oceans his mother rose from, and they matched the rest of his fine, striking, beautiful features.

He yawned, blue eyes heavy-lidded, disinterested. “What’s your name?”

Glaciera was barely a quarter of the size of Zuko’s father’s kingdom. He had spoken against a general, practically called for the death of an entire platoon, and still the prince did not know his name. With a grave resolution, Zuko did not speak.

He asked again after a moment, louder, “What’s your name?”

Zuko’s mind prodded at him, reminding him of his new place. He couldn’t rebel against a prince twice. Perhaps he had not heard him the first time, but there was no excuse for a second. “Zuko.”

The boy rolled onto his side, eyes flicking over Zuko casually as if he were a new toy, barely worth his time. “My name is Sokka.”

Zuko jerked his chin up in bare acknowledgement. They regarded each other for a long moment, Zuko studying his new lord and Sokka studying his new nothing.

He yawned, and it reminded Zuko of a lounging cat. “Welcome to Glaciera.”

Zuko had been raised in a court and knew a dismissal when he heard one.

🏹

Zuko was not the only orphan that Hakoda had collected. The servant led him to the pallet-lined barracks after Sokka waved him off, taking him to the thin bed where his things had been left. A few of the boys lifted their heads from their games and conversations to peer at the newcomer. Zuko was sure some had spoken to him, asked his name. Zuko was sure he had given it. He was no one important anymore, and it showed in their passive faces and the way they returned to their play with no more thought.

He sat on his pallet until they were summoned to dinner, and followed the swarm of boys through the twisting hallways to the dining hall. It was a spacious room that suited Hakoda’s love for hosting. The meal was simple but plentiful — salted fish, bread, cheese, but none of the meat Zuko was used to. That was for royalty.

Across the room, Zuko caught a flash of gold-gilded hair. Sokka. He was surrounded by a group of boys who were laughing at something he had said or done.

_That is what a prince should be._

The bread in Zuko’s hand felt coarse against his fingers, and the food in his stomach turned to lead. He did not eat any more.

After supper, the foster boys were allowed to do as they like, and several gathered in a corner for a game. “Do you want to play?” one asked. He was still round-faced, hair with the softness of childhood, younger than Zuko.

Zuko was too stressed, overwhelmed, pained. “No,” he said, too loudly.

The boy blinked in surprise, shrugged, and was gone.

Zuko dreamed of the platoon that night. Their bloody faces surrounded his bed, staring down at him with hateful, filmy eyes. Though he had left his kingdom, his failures followed him. The men stepped forward in unison, mouths opening. Zuko quickly clapped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. The voices of the dead were said to drive the living mad; he knew he must not hear them speak.

Zuko woke in terror, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding painfully against his sternum. He had not screamed aloud, it appeared; the boys around him remained peacefully asleep, their breaths steady and unbothered, a mockery of Zuko’s frantic pants. Their presence was not comforting, no matter how much Zuko wanted it to be. 

Exile may satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead.

🏹

Zuko only saw Sokka at meals in golden flashes, peeling laughter, glimpses of sea-blue eyes. He was constantly surrounded by adoration; his lower peers flocked to him, hoping for his favor and friendship. He was friendly to everyone, social and bright and clever. He was everything a prince should be. Zuko hated him.

He and the other foster boys followed a routine that revealed the truth of Hakoda’s willingness to take them in — breakfast was followed by hours in the practice yards, training with spear and sword. Well-trained and indebted, they would one day make him a loyal army. Hakoda’s son never joined them; Zuko searched for him every day, and he would have noticed if he was there. 

When the masters released them, most of the boys flocked to the beach to enjoy the cool breeze and cooler water. Zuko sat in the shade of an olive tree, staring out at the waves. No one spoke to him. He was easy to ignore. Glaceria wasn’t so different from Caldera in that regard.

Days passed like this — standard breakfast, weary exercise, lonely afternoons. Night passed like this — pale and bloody men stood by Zuko’s bedside, staring relentlessly. Zuko would wake in terror and lie, alone, staring at the darkness til dawn.

🏹

Meals were Zuko’s only reprieve from solitude. The walls of the long hall didn’t press in on him as much as the barracks, and the loud chatter around him didn’t seem as deafening. The constant noise was almost comforting, allowing him to dissociate from his own thoughts. It never lasted, of course. Sleep always brought horror that was all too real.

Meals were also the only time he saw Sokka. Their days were entirely separate; Sokka attended his lessons while Zuko attended his spars; Sokka lounged on plush benches while Zuko sat stiffly in the shade; Sokka slept soundly in a lavish room while Zuko was terrorized by his sin. Seeing Sokka amongst the foster boys that would one day swear fealty to him was like seeing a god amongst peasants, which, Zuko supposed, was the truth. He did not have a permanent seat or a group of friends, instead choosing to circulate throughout the room, making friendly acquaintances with everyone as they vied for his favor.

He shined brightly, his hair and skin and smile all golden, his features sculpted and lovely, his voice a siren call to all around him, moths to his flame. He was all that Zuko wasn’t. Beautiful. Fearless. Faultless. Perhaps most remarkable was how he conducted himself. He did not carry the cocky pride that beautiful children of his royal standing often did, and seemed to be unaware of the effect he had on the people around him. Zuko wasn’t sure how that was possible. They all crowded around him like dogs, tongues lolling, eager to serve their master.

Zuko watched it all from his solitary place at the farthest table. There was an edge of envy to his gaze. It was as sharp as flint, as if one strike would spark a fire. Sokka sat closer than usual one day, and Zuko couldn’t help but observe their differences even further. Sokka was limber where Zuko was gangly, sunkissed where Zuko was pale, untouched where Zuko was callused.

 _That is what a_ prince _should be,_ Zuko thought with a bitter sneer that was not usually present.

It was as if Sokka had heard him — their eyes met for a moment, and Zuko felt a shock course through him. Startled, he jerked his gaze away, taking a bite of bread and pretending his cheeks were not hot, his stomach was not turning. He had turned away again when Zuko risked a glance.

Zuko was stealthier with his daily observation after that, keeping his head down and gaze under his lashes. But Sokka was craftier. He would catch Zuko watching him at least once during dinner, and those half seconds of their eyes meeting were the only moments Zuko felt anything at all. The sudden swoop of his stomach and spark of anger made Zuko feel like a fish eyeing a hook, and he felt unable to resist the bait.

At the end of his fourth month in Phthia, Zuko walked into the dining hall to find his regular table busy, boys orbiting around the gold-glinting prince. Zuko froze, caught between fight and flight, fear and fury. Fury won; the peaceful table belonged to him and Sokka could not push him from it, no matter how many boys he brought or seats he filled.

After a moment of hesitation, Zuko sat at the last empty space at the table, shoulders tense. The other boys continued to posture, talking about mundane excitements, but Zuko barely heard them, their voices fading to fuzzy background noise. Sokka’s presence was impossible to ignore. His skin was the color of dark pressed olive oil, smooth as polished wood, empty of the blemishes from rougher living that covered the rest of them.

Their eyes did not meet that meal. As the fosters wandered slowly out of the hall to find evening activities, Sokka remained. Zuko watched out of the corner of his eye as he reached for a bowl of plump figs, gathering several in his hands. Zuko was surprised when he started to juggle — juggling was a commoner’s trick, not one fit for princes, but Sokka grinned as he deftly tossed the figs in the air, catching them, laughing as the boys around him cheered him on, rooting for more. 

Zuko couldn’t help but watch him, and couldn’t help but be amazed that this was yet another thing he could do as easy as breathing. Sokka had been watching the fruit but his eyes flicked to Zuko’s. “Catch,” he said, and Zuko caught. The fig was warm in his hands.

Sokka returned the figs to the table one by one, but bit into the last one, the flesh parting easily under his teeth. Zuko bit into his own and it tasted like a dusty memory. He had loved figs, once.

Sokka stood to leave and waved to the boys as they chorused their farewells. Zuko watched him go, and Sokka did not look back at him again.

🏹

King Hakoda returned to the palace the next day and Zuko was summoned before his throne. He knelt on the stone and Hakoda shot him an easy smile. He was handsome and Sokka was a near-perfect likeness, but seeing his father made his god-birth all the more evident.

“Why are you here, Zuko?” he asked. He had to ask for Zuko’s name when he arrived; another reminder of his insignificance.

“I spoke against my father,” Zuko said, clear but quiet, his voice felt strange in his throat. He did not often speak. He could picture the men who haunted him at night, pale, bloody, filmy-eyed. “I caused the death of a platoon.”

Hakoda peered at him with an odd expression, as if he had answered incorrectly. “You are welcome here,” he said after a moment. “You’ll still make a good man.”

He meant it as a comfort, but it just made Zuko feel more numb.

🏹

A servant had overheard them, Zuko thought, because the next day everyone knew why he was there. Everyone knew what he had done. They stared at him, at first, wary, suspicious, on their guard, as if he may decide to kill again. It made Zuko’s cheeks burn and his head dizzy, and he felt, embarrassingly, on the brink of tears. Their looks continued through breakfast in the hall and exercises in the yard and Zuko didn’t bother going to the beach to sit under his shady tree.

Meals were no longer a reprieve from his thoughts. The constant buzz of conversation was no longer comforting, and he felt like he heard his name whispered all around him. Food tasted like ash on his tongue and sat like coal in his stomach. He sought out any solitude he could, avoiding them all, hiding away in trees and in empty hallways when he should have been at practice. He hoped no one would notice his absence, but he would never be that lucky.

Sokka found him, huddled beside a window in an alcove, his arms wrapped around his knees. “I heard you were here.” His voice was clear, like ice-melted streams.

Zuko’s head jerked up, his heart jumping to his throat. He had been daydreaming of a dragon, weaving through the clouds in the sky like a fish in water, leaping playfully and breathing out fire that rivaled the sun. He was free and happy. Zuko was not.

Sokka stood over him, face serious, sea-blue eyes regarding him solemnly. Zuko tried to swallow his heart, guilt prickling at him painfully. Zuko wasn’t supposed to be there and they both knew it.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, expressionless. “You haven’t been going to drills.”

Zuko’s face burned but he couldn’t look away from his eyes. The guilt gave way to anger — it was Sokka’s right to chastise him, but it had been Zuko’s place, too, once. Zuko hated him for it.

“How would you know? You aren’t there.”

“The master noticed and told my father.”

“And he sent you to find me?” Zuko asked, incredulously.

“No,” Sokka said. His jaw tightened. “I came on my own. I overheard them. I came to see if you were ill.” He studied Zuko when he did not answer. “My father is considering punishment.”

Zuko knew what that meant. Punishment would be corporal and public; a prince would never be whipped, but Zuko was not a prince.

“You’re not ill,” Sokka said.

“No,” Zuko confirmed.

“Then that won’t serve as your excuse.”

Zuko furrowed his brow, confused. “What?”

“It won’t serve as an excuse to not be punished. So what will you say?”

“I don’t know,” Zuko was baffled.

“You have to say _something._ ”

His insistence hit the sharp-edge flint of Zuko’s anger and he snapped, “You’re the prince.”

It was Sokka’s turn to be surprised. He tilted his head a little, a curious pup. “So?”

Zuko felt bolder than he should, but he could not bite his tongue. “So speak to your father and tell him I was with you. He’d excuse it.” He tagged on, an inadvertent scowl in his voice. “He _loves_ you.”

Zuko saw the hesitation in Sokka’s eyes. “I don’t like to lie.” Zuko couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t like to lie either. His boldness faded and left his chest feeling empty. “Come with me.” Sokka turned to leave and, like a puppet, Zuko stood to follow, sure he was going to his death, or, at least, the pain. It was as if Sokka could hear his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder. “To my lyre lesson,” he clarified. “So it won’t be a lie.”

Zuko’s limbs ached from sitting still for so long, his legs heavy as he walked. He swallowed and felt a strange emotion burn in the back of his throat — escape, danger, and hope all at once.

🏹

Zuko followed him to a small room and sat on a stool at Sokka’s gesture. Sokka opened a chest and pulled a simple lyre out of it, holding it out.

“I don’t play,” Zuko told him.

Sokka blinked, surprised. “Never?”

Zuko shook his head, feeling odd. “My father didn’t like music.”

“So?” Sokka asked, holding the lyre out again. “Your father isn’t here.”

Zuko took it and slid his fingers over the strings, hearing the quiet hum from the soft vibrations. He remembered it, suddenly; it was the lyre that Sokka had been playing when Zuko had first been presented to him.

Sokka pulled another lyre from the trunk and sat on a stool beside Zuko. The lyre was made of polished wood with bright gold strings. Sokka plucked one and the note sounded as crisp as his voice. Sokka plucked another string, and it rang deeper, like an ocean wave at night.

 _That was my mother’s lyre,_ Zuko almost said, but the words would not come out. It did not matter. The lyre was his now.

Zuko’s mouth was dry. “It’s beautiful.”

“My father gave it to me,” Sokka said, careless. If he was not holding the lyre so carefully, like it was something he valued, rage would have bubbled over in Zuko’s chest. “You can hold it if you want.”

Zuko knew that he would break as soon as he touched the frame that was as familiar as his own skin. He wouldn’t cry in front of Sokka. He couldn’t.

The teacher entered before they could say more, giving him a scathing look. “Who is this?” 

“Zuko,” Sokka said. “He doesn’t play but he will learn.”

The teacher glanced at the lyre in Zuko’s hands and shook his head, reaching for it. The lyre was a princely instrument, and Zuko was not a prince. “Not on that, he won’t.”

Zuko gripped the lyre tighter, not wanting it to be taken away. He felt strangely attached, he didn’t want to give it up. He didn’t have to avoid the teacher’s grasp, however, Sokka caught him by the wrist mid-reach. “Yes, on that if he likes.”

The teacher couldn’t argue with a prince and he relented, though he gave Zuko a scathing glare. He nodded once at Sokka, and Sokka began to play. His deft hands plucked the strings, and Zuko could not wonder about Sokka’s generous insistence, he was enraptured — the sound was pure as water, bright as lemons; it had warmth of fire, texture of ivory; it lifted the heart and soothed the soul all at once. A few gold-glinting hairs fell over his closed eyes, and they were as fine and shining as the lyre strings themselves.

He stopped playing and met Zuko’s eyes. “Now you.”

Zuko shook his head slowly. “You play.” _Please_ , he almost added. He never wanted to play, now; nothing could match the beauty that was Sokka’s music, or the beauty that was Sokka himself.

Sokka didn’t argue and turned away again, fingers plucking the strings to form a woven melody. He sang, and his voice was salt and honey, a clear, rich treble. He smiled a little, and Zuko was drawn in.

Zuko watched him wave off the teacher, and handed him his simple lyre when he held out his hand for him. Zuko felt out of body and it took him a moment to realize that Sokka was standing in the doorway, waiting for him.

“We’ll go see my father now.”

Zuko couldn’t speak, but he nodded and walked at his heels, following him through the twisting hallways to the king.

**Author's Note:**

> 🌿 welcome to the end of the chapter. like comment subscribe (if u wanna), i'd love to hear what you thought!  
> 🌿 ty to [nettlewine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nettlewine/pseuds/nettlewine) for edits, check out her aesthetic vibe bts fics bc i ADORE them: [gold spoon couturiers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866577) and [i love you, seoul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28986459)


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